


Spring and All

by ladymelodrama



Series: Wine & Whiskey [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, F/M, Jorah lives!, Minor Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, Post-Canon, Team Targ, Watch Out for Cavities, just. fluff., post-s8, the sap in this is comparable to a sugar maple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26463517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: Spring comes to King's Landing. And, with it, a visit from the Lady of Winterfell...
Relationships: Grey Worm/Missandei, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Wine & Whiskey [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944355
Comments: 86
Kudos: 44
Collections: Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Fall 2020





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaymondHope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaymondHope/gifts).



> Jorleesi Exchange YAY! 
> 
> Okay so for my person - I hope you like this <3 It went way fluffier/sappier than I originally intended (I'm not even sorry) but I tried to work in almost everything on your Request 1 wishlist:
> 
> Post Season 8.  
> Grey Worm/Missandei and Daenerys/Jorah.  
> All four enjoying their lives in King's Landing.  
> Appearances or mentions of other characters.  
> Joking, maybe a double date.  
> GW-Jbear Broship must be included, Dany-Missi friendship as well.  
> Basically fluff.  
> +Plus the multi-POVs of Request 3 
> 
> Again, hope you enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. The title of this fic is stolen from a William Carlos Williams poem because it's pretty and fitting and I'm terrible at titles :)

**_Daenerys_ **

The gardens in King’s Landing were threatening to bloom. 

Crocus, bluebells, iris, white roses. Scarlet snap dragons and yellow buttercups, daffodils and daisies. After so many years of iced sea breezes and heavy snows, the fallow gardens shivered through the last gasps of winter, before deciding to dress in greens once more. 

The flower buds were cautious as they opened, peering out with trepidation, fearful of frost, only daring to unfurl their vibrant petals wide after the morning sun finished its rising. 

Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, likewise lounged in her high bedchamber in the Red Keep, rising late and waiting until dawn fully crested the horizon and spilled out over the old city before stirring in her bed. But this was not for fear of winter’s chill—she’d spent all those bleak winter nights wrapped up in the strong arms of her Lord Commander, warm and safe, where frost and cold would never be able to reach her.

It had been a long, cold winter. There was no denying that.

After all their enemies were dead, all buried or burned, winter still remained. Winter didn’t play the game of thrones, but it wore the crown of victory nonetheless, forcing the people of Westeros to take refuge by their cinder-snapping fires, huddled under furs and praying for an early spring. 

No one can defeat the weather—but during those long months, _years_ even, Daenerys found that Jorah Mormont could always beat back the cold for her, in a way that no one else could. 

If Khal Drogo had been her sun and stars, Jorah was the fire in her hearth, the spark that survived the winter and kept the darkness away, even when the sun failed to rise for weeks at a time and the stars remained hidden away behind wintery storms that howled deep into the frozen night. 

The memory of those coldest days grew fainter with every hour. And Daenerys was glad to see them go. Lying curled against Jorah in their bed, she’d woken early. But she found that she liked to linger in the mornings, especially lately. And her lover didn’t seem to mind either.

As winter gave way to spring, there was much to be done and many who clamored for their attention, high lords and common folk both. But it would all keep for another hour. 

The kingdoms were at peace, the people made hardy by the long winter, and made hopeful by the dripping eaves and stronger sunlight, which played on the gently lapping waves of Blackwater Bay, and in the plowed fields of the countryside in the Reach, already speckled with new growth, little shoots bursting up through rich, damp soil.

With her eyes closed and still half-dozing against Jorah’s broad chest, Daenerys nevertheless felt a full smile steal across her glowing features at the thought of the barren fields of Westeros springing back to life.

The land was so eager, so willing to prove winter finally over. 

_How fitting_ , she thought, as her hand drifted to the generous swell of her waist, well into a pregnancy that she never expected, the impossible notion of having natural born children far beyond her wildest dreams for so long.

She could add Mirri Maz Duur’s curse to the list of things vanquished by the man she now called her husband. 

Jorah’s hand slid over hers soon enough, softly interlacing their fingers together, while joining those hands along the curve of her belly, where their unborn child lounged, just as lazily as its father and mother.

At the familiar gesture, Daenerys blinked her violet eyes open, expecting to find Jorah awake. But no, he’d taken her hand in sleep, his subconscious mind somehow sensing her thoughts? The bear was still fast asleep, his breathing patterns even, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that could always beckon her back to sleep too easily.

And did, with little resistance. The cares of the day would have to wait. 

With a contented sigh, Her Grace, Queen Daenerys, closed her eyes once more.


	2. II

**_Tyrion_ **

Lord Tyrion, the Queen’s Hand, was feeling a little tense that morning. It was his natural way to fret over everything, details and grand schemes alike, no matter how simple, no matter how small. 

It wasn’t always this way. He’d been so carefree in his youth, on a first name basis with every tavern and brothel owner in Lannisport and Casterly Rock, sleeping with a different whore every night, drinking flagons of ale and glasses of wine by the bucketful, and flicking his Lannister gold in the direction of anyone who amused him.

But acting as Hand to his nephew, that child-tyrant, Joffrey, sailing across the Narrow Sea in a wooden box, surviving the Great War by fighting off ragged dead men in a crypt underground, freezing through the long winter, and now serving Daenerys Stormborn, impulsive and difficult to influence on even her _best_ days, had changed him. 

Perhaps for the better in some ways? Perhaps not so much in others.

Bronn, or Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Lord of the Twins rather, said Tyrion had begun to fret like an old woman. 

“And with all those wrinkles, you’re startin’ to look like one too,” Bronn warned, bluntly, on his last visit to the capital. It was the latest visit of many. Tyrion noticed that Bronn had a hard time acting the part of a high lord. Staying in his own castle proved a little too tiresome a task for the former sellsword. 

“Don’t make me regret getting you those castles,” Tyrion sniped back. He reminded his one-time companion, “ _Two_ castles, when you really only deserved the one. Don’t you forget it.”

“No one else would take it, m’lord,” Bronn sniffed. He was satisfied with his final payment, calling the debt started in the Eyrie satisfied at last, but he held tight to his usual list of grievances, all the same. He shrugged, “We’ve beat all the carpets out a dozen times. But everything still stinks like Walder Frey…” 

Tyrion had cringed a little on Bronn’s complaint, worried it might be true. He made a note to avoid the Twins on the itinerary of any royal visits for the near future. 

Bronn wouldn’t expect the honor anyway. He was still too rough around the edges to know how the game of high lords was played. And there were others, from older families and with thinner skin, who might take more offense if their houses were skipped on the next tour through the kingdoms. 

Not that a tour was planned anytime soon. Spring or not, the Queen had reasons for staying close to the home.

Daenerys wouldn’t be leaving King’s Landing again until her child’s birth. But after, there would be invitations flooding the capital, begging for the honor of hosting the new prince or princess in holdfasts scattered throughout the countryside. They wouldn’t be able to visit them all. So it would be another list for Tyrion to fret over when the time came. He exhaled on the thought of future politicking, already weary of it. 

Perhaps he _was_ turning into an old woman? 

But there was really no need. 

Not today, not for a long time. Daenerys’s coronation had marked a glorious change in Westeros. Since the hour she was crowned, her reign had been a calm and peaceful one. Daenerys hadn’t had to face anything worse than minor squabbles among her small council members and the bite and sting of cold weather. 

Even her unlikely marriage to Jorah Mormont, the general of her armies and the Lord Commander of her Queensguard, had been taken in stride by the common folk, much to Tyrion’s everlasting surprise.

Lord Tyrion was too used to those times before the wheel was broken. He thought the people of King’s Landing would riot on the brazen idea of the Queen choosing a husband so far below her own station, a disgraced knight from a lesser house. But instead, they embraced it.

They fell in love with the love story—an exiled princess, her sworn knight. A love that grew slowly and bloomed at just the right moment. 

And when they found out the Queen was expecting a child, they said it was a blessing and a sign from the gods, both the Old and the New. That spring would follow, that the land would blossom and bloom, and that all the pain, mistakes and grief of the last decade would finally heal.

Tyrion couldn’t argue with them. Not after the snows started to melt off the red brick and the trees started to bud for the first time since Daenerys stood in the ruins of the Sept of Baelor, kneeling as they placed a silver, dragon-twined crown on her head, her long, silver-blonde hair down around her shoulders, her expression solemn as she vowed to protect and serve the land of her fathers until her last breath. 

She’d been a vision that day, wearing winter white and dressed in furs as gentle snow fell on King’s Landing. After that crown was placed on her head, Ser Jorah reached forth his hand and helped her to her feet, as the crowd cheered and applauded their new monarch. She smiled up at him, and he smiled down at her—and Tyrion wondered, for a moment, if they forgot that they were surrounded by hundreds, all come to see the Targaryen girl finally reclaim her family’s throne. 

When they broke that shared gaze, Tyrion noticed it was with reluctance, and he knew then that he would be fighting a losing battle should he attempt to sway Daenerys’s heart in any other direction. 

Her rash temperament cooled with the winter. Or perhaps that was Jorah’s doing. Tyrion had known for a long time that Jorah was good for Daenerys. He said it himself on the beach at Dragonstone.

_Our Queen needs you…_

Indeed, she made it _very_ clear she wouldn’t be giving Jorah up ever again. 

And there was no question that she was good for him. By the gods, the glowering northern lord had finally learned how to _smile_. Tyrion was a little unnerved the first time he saw Jorah smiling, nearly whistling in the halls of the Red Keep, not yet knowing the reason for it.

But Daenerys was never one to hide her affections. And it all came out soon after she was crowned.

Tyrion’s reservations about their relationship had receded in recent years, as they were better together, only a fool would deny it. But that didn’t mean Daenerys didn’t take great pleasure in reminding him of how he’d once resisted the union, and how foolish an endeavor that had turned out to be.

When Daenerys fell in love, it was never subtle. And when she fell in love with Jorah Mormont, it was forever.

There were occasions when the three of them worked together in the small council chamber, answering letters and writing edicts until late in the evening. It was tedious work and as the hours slogged on, Daenerys would finally throw her quill pen down and rise from her seat, going to her Lord Commander’s side to climb into his lap and casually twine her arms around his neck.

“Go to bed, Lord Tyrion…,” the Queen would order the dwarf, without sparing a glance in his direction. Her eyes were locked with her bear’s, their shared grins turning sly and intimate. She gave her familiar warning, “…unless you wish to watch Ser Jorah and I engage in some matters of state that don’t include you.”

He’d raised a thousand objections against the union. In reply, Daenerys kissed her lover a thousand more times. Then she wed him before gods and men, just for good measure.

And now she carried his child. 

But this, at least, brought Tyrion some peace of mind. There would be an heir to the Iron Throne. The line of succession would be set for another generation. The prince or princess would be loved by the people, as they loved the child already, greeting Daenerys whenever she walked through the streets with shouts of congratulations and bouquets of spring flowers thrust into her arms.

The lords and ladies of the old families seemed well pleased by the news as well, most having made the journey to King’s Landing to gift their queen with tokens of approval and joy already.

Only one remained, and she was currently on her way to the capital. Sansa Stark would be in King’s Landing by midday, for the first time since she fled this place all those years ago. When she was still just a girl, when she was still Tyrion’s wife.

_Tyrion—I will arrive in King’s Landing by the next full moon to give our Queen my congratulations in person. Jon has remained at Winterfell. Please make the necessary arrangements._

Her raven had betrayed nothing of her true thoughts on the matter, and Tyrion’s tenseness lay in knowing that Sansa’s feelings on Daenerys had never been the warmest, despite the fact that they’d made peace some time ago.

And he was anxious on another score, as he had thought on the scarlet shade of Sansa’s red hair more than a few times in the last year and found himself longing to see his former wife more than perhaps he should.

He set those foolhardy thoughts aside, unwilling to dwell on them for long. Instead, he sent for half a dozen of the household servants, to prepare for Lady Stark’s imminent arrival.


	3. III

**_Grey Worm_ **

“You are late, Jorah the Andal,” Grey Worm greeted his friend with a warm glance, despite the good-natured chiding. 

Grey Worm’s mouth twitched a little as he watched Ser Jorah—a bit rumpled, a bit hastily dressed—descend the stone staircase to join him in the wings of the sparring yard, where they were set to test out some new recruits for the household guards.

That twitch on Grey Worm’s lips was not quite a smile, as the Commander of the Unsullied was never one for smiles. Not even when he was happy. 

And he _was_ happy. It was hard to be anything else these days, as there were no masters to serve and no wars to fight. He woke up beside Missandei of Naath each morning and was daily granted the pleasure of hearing her sweet voice before anyone else.

This morning, she grinned as she kissed him awake, rising from the bed to get an early start. 

He pouted just a little and tried to pull her back to bed, which Missandei just chuckled at. She told him once that if anyone knew that Grey Worm, the Queen’s grim Master of War—undefeated on the battlefield and in the practice ring both—could manage such a pout behind closed doors, he would swiftly lose the respect of his men.

“What need do I have of respect…,” he asked her, keeping her close by wrapping an arm around her slim waist and pressing a kiss against the back of her neck. “…when I have Missandei of Naath?” 

Her smile deepened on his words and she melted into his kiss, which trailed to her throat, climbing up to the sensitive skin just behind her ear, if only for a moment. She wriggled free too soon, insisting, “I still have a thousand things to do this morning. Lady Stark will be here before midday and the reception in the gardens is planned for early afternoon, both as a welcome to the northerners and as a surprise for Daenerys, in celebration of the baby.”

“Does Lord Tyrion know your plans?” Grey Worm raised one eyebrow slightly, knowing that there was some lingering tension between Daenerys Stormborn and Sansa Stark. The last time the two women met, words had been sparse and they parted without farewells. He considered whether or not Lady Stark would be amenable to celebrating their Queen, even if she had eventually bent the knee.

“He gave me his blessing…reserved though it may be,” Missandei replied, knowing what he hinted at. But she shook her head, almost ruefully, explaining, “You all misread Sansa Stark. She’s pleased that Daenerys has left the North in Jon’s care. There’s been no interference in the way the Starks handle their own people and Sansa respects that Daenerys has allowed them the freedom to make their own decisions. She won’t mind celebrating the queen. Not with such glad tidings as this.”

“A baby is a happy omen,” Grey Worm acknowledged the old wisdom, while trying not to be too enthusiastic about it. 

When Daenerys announced her pregnancy to them, early, in private, just the four of them, Grey Worm knew Missandei would be thrilled for her friend’s sake. But he was worried that the news would serve as too bitter a reminder—that _they_ would never have children. Some things are more impossible than a witch’s curse.

But Missandei seemed overjoyed by the news, embracing both Daenerys and Ser Jorah by turns, affectionately and with a clever, “I only wonder that it didn’t happen sooner…”, and Grey Worm soon had no worries at all. She would be this child’s aunt in all but blood. She looked forward to that baby’s arrival nearly as anxiously and excitedly as Daenerys.

Hearing his somber tone, Missandei guessed his thoughts, allaying his fears with a gaze that went tender and quiet, as always. She reminded him, “Babies are wonderful, but they aren’t all that matters.”

_Love, trust, family, waking up next to the person you love…_

She dressed quickly, adding, “I think Lady Stark will enjoy herself, if only because she’ll be able to sit outside and look at something other than snow and ice. Even the northerners have to be sick of winter by now. And if I don’t make Daenerys cry happy tears within the first five minutes, I’ll not have done my job.”

Grey Worm had no doubt that Missandei would succeed in anything she tried. There was no other woman like her in the entire world, and he felt himself infinitely blessed that he shared her life and her bed. He threw back the bed covers and crawled across their mattress, reaching out and taking her back, tightening the grip around her wrist to bring her down for another kiss.

She grinned on his lips once more, allowing it briefly, before breaking away, “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise. But I have to go…”

His pout turned into a minor groan, which she just ignored, pushing him back against the soft pillows with a laugh. He lounged against the headboard, as he watched her finish dressing. Before she left him, she blew him a kiss, which he pretended to catch, laying it flush against his heart. 

Then he sulked in her absence for a few minutes, sighing on the way their chamber always seemed to lose most of its sparkle whenever Missandei wasn’t in it.

He recovered soon enough, as he was an early riser. And, without Missandei, there was no reason to linger in bed. He was soon dressed and prepared for the day, down in the sparring yard within the hour, testing the blades, sizing up the new recruits.

Ser Jorah had told him that he’d join them early, as they couldn’t start without him, as only he had the final say on who would eventually be given the honor of serving their Queen. But apparently, the Lord Commander’s lady was a little more willing to linger in bed than Missandei this morning.

The bear wasn’t exactly disheveled—but rumpled, certainly, his slightly mussed hair and flushed skin showing signs of a dragon’s wandering touch. And his steps were rushed, knowing full well how high the sun now sat in the heavens. 

“I know…,” Jorah muttered by way of apology, poorly suppressing the little smirk that hinted on the curl of his lips. He wasn’t sorry at all. Grey Worm could hardly blame the man—their Queen and her knight had been through too much together, plagued by years of trouble and despair, not to be granted these little moments of peace in recompense.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t tease him about it a little more, “The Queen is in good spirits?”

“Aye,” Jorah confirmed, unable to hide that he was in good spirits as well. He looked younger these days, the weariness and terrible dangers of all those years in exile and fighting to get back to Daenerys’s side falling away from him, like snowmelt off the ships in the harbor. 

Jorah chose a blunt, sparring sword from the nearest barrel of weapons. He flipped the hilt in his hand twice, judging the weight. “She says she’s convinced the baby will be a girl.”

“How does she know?” Grey Worm asked, wondering if that was even possible? He’d be the first to admit that he had little idea on _anything_ to do with babies or the prophetic powers of a woman carrying one.

“She doesn’t,” Jorah replied flatly, huffing on a wry laugh. But something in his voice said he wasn’t as certain as his words might indicate. He shared, “She says she had a dream of me standing in the surf, holding a little girl with blue eyes and silver hair beside an eastern sea…”

“A princess?” Grey Worm considered, nodding on the image of the gruff general with a baby girl in his arms. He wondered how Jorah felt about it.

But one look at the other man and he needed no answer. Ser Jorah was _beaming_ , as was his usual state these days. Son or daughter, it made no difference to him. Just the idea that he was going to be a father was strange and wonderful enough.

“Aye,” Jorah repeated, with depth of feeling coloring his already rich tone. He clamped his strong hand down on Grey Worm’s shoulder, and the sparse leather armor that covered it, tipping his head towards the yard and the young man who waited there so nervously, about to cross swords with two of the most lauded warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. “Come, Torgo, let’s see how these young men dance.”


	4. IV

**_Missandei_ **

“Keep my braids soft today, if you would?” Daenerys asked, while spinning the bud of a blush rose between her fingertips, impulsively plucked from a white vase in her private chambers. In the reflection of the mirror, Missandei watched Daenerys bend her head just a little to breathe in the flower’s fresh, floral scent. 

She’d seen Daenerys and Jorah walking in the gardens last night, arm in arm, speaking softly. As the weather turned mild, Missandei had noticed it was becoming a nightly ritual for the queen and her husband to wander the high gardens. And Daenerys had that same rose in her hands last night as well, as Jorah had absently reached down to pick it out of the hedgerow for her.

Missandei noticed that Daenerys was struggling to sit still while her hair was arranged, anxious to be done. They would then switch places and Daenerys would return the favor, as was their custom, before they both went down to greet Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. 

Daenerys was _filled_ with restless energy this morning. 

Spring had something to do with it and her advancing pregnancy, a little more. She was excited about this child. She’d made no secret about that. She was eager to meet her baby and counted the days until delivery, willing the clock to move a little faster.

But perhaps she was anxious about Lady Stark’s visit as well? This would be their first meeting with the Stark girl since the end of the last war, after Cersei’s defeat, when they all went home to huddle by their fires and suffer through winter’s harsher storms, in their own castles and with their own families held close.

Honestly, Missandei never thought to see Sansa Stark again. 

Before that raven arrived, the woman had made no indication that she would ever be returning to the capital. They all knew King’s Landing held cruel memories for Sansa—and it was well known that she loved her northern country best of all. The frost of Winterfell and tinseled-ice of the conifers in the Wolfswood was in her blood. 

Missandei couldn’t quite relate to Lady Stark on those points, as she found the North bitter cold and fairly inhospitable. King’s Landing certainly wasn’t Essos, but it was far closer in climate and in the temperament of its people. She and Grey Worm felt settled here, comfortable and content. They’d considered returning East after the war, but they had travelled so long with Ser Jorah and Daenerys that it seemed unfathomable that they would ever part ways again.

For why would you willingly part ways with your family? Missandei thought the idea very strange.

“Oh!” Daenerys gave a soft sound as she suddenly set the rose aside, perched on the vanity. She reached up to grab Missandei’s hand, forcing her to abandon the unfinished braid in her haste. 

She brought that hand down to join her own at the bulge of her waist, where the child within her was kicking up a storm. Daenerys caught her breath on the sensation, still new, still so otherworldly. But she was grinning too, pleased as always to know her child was growing and playing and soon to join them.

“She’s feisty,” Missandei smiled at the succession of little kicks against her palm, looking at her friend with unreserved affection. She said, “She takes after her mother already.”

Daenerys gave a bright laugh in reply, allowing, “Maybe. But I hope she’s more like Jorah. Calm and steady and not so quick to anger.”

“I haven’t heard you lose your temper with Tyrion lately, my lady,” Missandei mentioned diplomatically, as her hand came away from the unborn child and seamlessly returned to Daenerys’s hair, picking up the unbraided strands once more. 

Her tone was a little clever, for they both knew that the rows between the Queen and her Hand were already the stuff of legend. The history books would declare their partnership to be “complicated.” When Daenerys told Tyrion that she would be marrying Jorah Mormont, with or without his blessing, Missandei was quite certain that the tiles of the Red Keep would fall in on themselves from all the shouting.

“He’s been behaving himself,” Daenerys agreed, pleased that time was ironing out some of the old quarrels between them. For all Tyrion’s miscalculations when they first arrived in Westeros, his advice had nevertheless proved valuable in the end, and his knowledge of King’s Landing and its people tended to be spot on. 

Except for where Jorah and Daenerys were concerned.

He’d been _utterly_ wrong about that. Missandei tried to explain it to him early. Even in Essos, before they left the Great Pyramid of Meereen. But men always underestimate how much love has to do with everything.

“He’ll behave himself even more today,” Missandei guessed, with innate intelligence. She had an eye for these things and she knew one thing that always seemed to make fussy Tyrion Lannister more pliable. 

Or some _one_ anyway. 

Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, Tyrion’s former wife. Missandei had watched them together while the armistice and final treaties were being negotiated and set to paper. There was a glimmer of something there, if somewhat tainted by unkind history. Yet, she knew that love conquered much. And if Sansa’s heart was inclined to soften towards Tyrion Lannister, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever befall the Seven Kingdoms.

Missandei would love to see Tyrion happy. As would Daenerys, even if he did his best to drive her mad, most of the time.

Indeed, Daenerys was nodding knowingly on Missandei’s words, “He _does_ like her, doesn’t he?”

“Mmhmm…”

“I sometimes wonder if he regrets pledging himself to my service instead of Sansa’s outright,” Daenerys mused, her hands smoothing down her gown over her generous curves, absently. Her words held no judgment, just curiosity.

“No, I don’t think so,” Missandei shook her head softly, her wiry, dark curls shimmering a little with the movement of her head. “He knows you’re a wonderful queen and he’s done good work here. He’s better for it too. He’s not drinking anymore, you know? Or…not as much anyway.”

“How much is ‘not as much’?” Daenerys wondered.

“Well…,” Missandei considered how best to judge Lord Tyrion’s current levels of sobriety. She reflected carefully, determining, “More than both you and I combined…but less than Ser Jorah in Sunspear.”

“Ah!” Daenerys smiled at the second half of that statement, laughing with delight at her friend’s chosen manner of explanation. She knew the night that Missandei referred to _very_ well, as it was the same night that Ser Jorah had enough wine and northern whiskey to risk kissing his queen, finding that she was _more_ than willing to kiss him back. “I suppose that’s as good as we can expect?” 

“He wouldn’t listen to us anyway,” Missandei shrugged, finishing Daenerys’s hair by tucking a small, silver comb where the soft braids came together, holding them tight. 

The two women switched places smoothly, used to the easy routine. Daenerys moved just a hair slower these days, but Missandei was glad she was taking her time and offered her a hand as she rose from the bench. 

Daenerys found a bronze butterfly clasp on the vanity that she intended to affix just above Missandei’s left ear and brushed her fingers over the blush rose bud once more, lovingly, as she grabbed it. 

“No, he wouldn’t,” Daenerys agreed, her fingers soon playing in Missandei’s wild curls. “But if Sansa Stark wants to try, I’m sure she could get that man to do anything she wanted…”


	5. V

**_Sansa_ **

The reception for the Queen was held in the gardens. 

Sansa wasn’t sure what to expect or how she might feel, being back here again, among the same hedges and flower beds where she’d last walked with Margaery Tyrell in what seemed at least a lifetime ago. 

All those blooming trellises they wandered under, now climbing with new ivy. The pond where she sat with Loras, beside white lotus blossoms, blushing under a warmer sun and the lapping reflection of the water—the sun, the flowers and the mild breeze all playing witness to her foolish dreams without saying a word to warn her.

It all looked the same, and yet so different. Different flowers, different faces, a different world.

Queen Daenerys now sat in the shaded, seaside gazebo where Lady Olenna had once held court, throwing barbs at the Lannisters and lecturing her granddaughters on their clumsy needlework. Unsullied soldiers and Dothraki bloodriders stood guard where Cersei’s Gold Cloaks once hovered. Lord Varys no longer simpered and bowed beside ivy-wrapped pillars, seeking out the songs of his little birds. And Littlefinger was not there, watching, waiting, always willing to find Sansa and pour more poisoned lies into her ear.

How times had changed… 

Sansa was greeted with warmth by Daenerys and her household, but not in that silky, slippery way that Sansa had grown accustomed to with Margaery and Cersei. Upon entering the throne room with her handmaid, Daenerys immediately reached for Sansa’s hands and she gave them, without thinking. 

Again, there appeared to be no guile in the gesture. The Queen wasn’t overly cloying, as she had been at Winterfell. And there was respect in her voice when she spoke Sansa’s name. Respect that hadn’t been there before. 

There’d been a thawing of so many things, as spring was a hopeful season and they were all tired of tension and war. Sansa had been second-guessing her trip but found herself sitting down in the offered chair in the gardens, enjoying King’s Landing’s more balmy breezes, the hum of bees and glorious sight of butterflies, sweet scents of flowers that were a way’s off yet in Winterfell, as the snows would stay with them for a few months longer than here, in the South.

The Queen looked in good health and better spirits. Missandei had arranged this gathering without Daenerys’s knowledge and she seemed surprised by the gifts and the loving greetings of those who attended, raising her hands up more than once to brush away a few errant, happy tears from her eyelashes.

She took no pains to hide her pregnancy, as her time must be getting close. Sansa hadn’t doubted the raven that brought the news and yet, everyone said it was impossible? Daenerys herself had told Jon that she would never bear a living child. But perhaps she meant with Jon. Instead of…

_Someone taller, Your Grace?…_

Ser Jorah came in when they were serving lemon cakes and went to Daenerys’s side. Sansa watched them discreetly, as the Queen remained sitting but took her Lord Commander’s weathered hand in both of her own, the grin on her happy face made wider as he bent down to whisper some secret words in her ear.

They were in the midst of dozens but Sansa noticed they seemed to have eyes for only each other. She was reminded of her mother and father, years ago, at Winterfell, whenever they played host to guests of the North. 

Gone was the heavy tension that had lingered between Daenerys and Jorah at Winterfell, stealing furtive glances at each other before the dead came. The specter of Jon had been between them, as they didn’t yet know the truth of his heritage. But they must have resolved things in the South, as Jon returned North after the city was taken back from Cersei, having sworn allegiance to his aunt, before leaving her in King’s Landing and the company of the northern lord who’d been with her longest.

“You’re home to stay?” Sansa had asked him, glad to have him back. 

“I am,” he answered, sparse on details, as was his way. But he did tell her, “And I’d expect we’ll receive a raven announcing a wedding soon enough.”

There were those in the North who whispered about it—the dragon queen and the disgraced Mormont knight, but Sansa found their gossip tedious. Ever since Littlefinger’s death, she didn’t abide rumors in her halls. Certainly not seeds of discord.

Besides, she never understood what the fuss was all about anyway. Ser Jorah was a few years older than the queen but what of it? He’d been with her longer than anyone else. They were bound together in some unearthly way, that was obvious even when they were at Winterfell.

His house was small but a proud one. He fought for the North and showed his meddle in the battle against the Night King, nearly sacrificing his life in the process. 

Of all the husbands their queen might have chosen, Sansa didn’t begrudge her this one. Disgraced though he may be, he was a northerner, which gave Sansa pleasure. Their child would sit on the throne someday, with as much of the North in its veins as Old Valyria. 

The child would be Jon’s first cousin and perhaps even summer on Bear Island. Sansa would be satisfied to have a monarch who might appreciate the true beauty of the North.

Sansa felt a slight pang…of jealousy? Envy? She had spent the winter with Jon and Bran. They hadn’t heard from Arya since she sailed west but Sansa knew that her sister would return eventually. She knew it in the depths of her soul. And she was happy to have her family back. Forever grateful. But still… 

Every once in a while, she was reminded of the desires and hopes and dreams of her youth. When she still believed in foolish ideas of true love and pretty maids and brave knights and all the rest of it. Watching Ser Jorah and Daenerys together, she was nearly tempted to believe in it again.

She found herself pulled from daydreams as she heard a familiar voice at her ear.

“Lady Stark, you are as beautiful as ever,” the voice was sincere, although it was a voice that certainly knew how to flatter. She turned to find Tyrion Lannister standing nearby, with a very shy look on his face.

Her heart flipped over itself at the familiar sight of him, more than she expected. She might blame the lonely winter or the natural thrill of meeting an old friend after such a long time.

_We are friends, aren’t we, Tyrion?_ Isn’t that why she addressed her message to him alone? Isn’t that why she searched the faces in the throne room, wondering why he wasn’t among those gathered to greet her?

“I apologize for not meeting you at the gate, Sansa,” he answered her unasked question before she could say a word about it. And his apology ran deep, his tone taking on a gravitas that she remembered well. He used that voice with her before, once. On their wedding night.

_I could, I should…_

She wondered if he thought on those times at all? Or the words they exchanged in the crypt at Winterfell when they thought they might not see the morning. She’d thought on them often lately and, for whatever ever reason, she was glad to see him. She _missed_ him during the long winter. 

For here was another who seemed to appreciate the beauty of the North. At least, he always made _her_ feel beautiful.

She found herself smiling a reply. A smile reminiscent of those she used in this garden a long time ago. Younger and more foolish perhaps. 

But hopeful too. 

She saw a reflection of that hope in his eyes, sparking on the soft glance she granted him, and decided she was willing to be a little more foolish, saying, with feeling, “It’s good to see you, my lord.”


	6. VI

**_Jorah_ **

“I think you might lose Tyrion to Winterfell, if you aren’t careful,” Jorah said to Daenerys as they readied themselves for bed. It was later in the evening and they’d recently retired from the mirthful halls below, where the lavish feast and spirited dancing would likely run into the wee hours of morning. 

The northerners were a grim lot, but wine and mead made revel-makers of them all. And Tyrion had been generous with the coin purse this time, arranging a feast worthy of the start of spring. There seemed little question as to the aim of his generosity, as he’d been deep in conversation with Sansa Stark when Jorah and Daenerys left the hall—both the dwarf and the northern lady flushed and on the precipice of joining the other couples in a dance.

Spring was in the air and it was nearly impossible to ignore its influence. Dancing was nearly mandatory for all guests of the Red Keep lately. Not that they minded.

Unfortunately, there was no dancing for the Queen and her favorite partner tonight. Jorah promised Daenerys that he would spin her around as often as she liked after the baby came but he steadfastly agreed with the maesters this time, that there was no reason she should be dancing right now.

Daenerys had a mind to argue, as she was so very fond of dancing and especially with him. He watched her fingers tap out the tune on the arm rest of her chair, her feet bouncing a little too, beneath the table, and her eyes betrayed her envy as Missandei was twirled in circles by Grey Worm, nearly losing her balance once before falling into his steadying arms, descending into fits of laughter. 

But with a few soft words from Jorah in her ear, his hand resting so protectively on their child, she was tamed into submission. At least for one night.

He was glad. Even without the dancing, Jorah noticed that she looked a little tired. The day had been a busy one. The weeks between now and the baby’s arrival were growing fewer in number and so he worried. He would never _not_ worry about her. Or go to her when she asked…

She lingered now, beside the doorframe of their bedroom balcony, smiling at him, reaching for him to come join her. 

“If Sansa makes him happy, he can go with my blessing,” Daenerys remarked, agreeably. She was agreeable to _everything_ lately, happy and in love with life, with him and with the child that they would soon meet. 

With another grin, she took both of his hands in her own and drew him out to the balcony, where silver-white stars were poking out of a clear and crisp night. “He deserves to be as happy as we are, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think it’s possible to be as happy as we are,” he allowed, answering her grin.

She teased, “Oh? And how happy are you, Lord Commander?”

Daenerys wove her fingers through his as she brought him near. When she was in his shadow, she turned smoothly in his arms, pulling them around her, snug under her breasts, and snuggled close against him, as the night was still chilly, despite the warmth of the day. 

The sweat-soaked nights and heat of deep summer were still far off. By the time the Citadel’s raven brought news of the end of spring, Daenerys will have borne Jorah a second child. And he would still be reeling from the appearance of his perfect, beautiful, blue-eyed firstborn, attempting to understand how he’d been given so much when he deserved so little.

Jorah’s lips were gracing her silky hair as he murmured his answer, “As happy as the stars in their heavens. As happy as Grey Worm with a spear in his hands.”

Daenerys chuckled lightly, “He does love that thing.”

“He was running circles around me in the sparring yard this morning,” Jorah acknowledged, unashamed about it. Grey Worm was an incredibly skilled soldier, naturally gifted and trained from infancy in the ways of war. Jorah was just happy to hold his own with the Unsullied. “But I managed to knock that spear out of his hands a couple times so perhaps I’m not old enough to put out to pasture yet.”

“No, not yet,” she replied, still teasing, turning in his grasp again, to face him now. Her hands took their familiar perch on his arm and shoulder, and her steps began swaying just a little, as the faint trills of minstrel music drifted up to their bedroom from the halls below. 

She would have her dancing, after all. 

Of course, she would. Daenerys always got what she wanted. At least when it came to Jorah. He indulged her, dropping one hand to the small of her back, while keeping their steps slow. 

They danced to an old love song, and she asked, coyly, “Will you teach our daughter to fight?”

“You’re sure it’s a girl?” His rumbling laughter accompanied an amused shake of his head. Her brazen confidence never wavered, and she just nodded, having no doubts whatsoever.

“Does that disappoint you?” she wondered, biting at her bottom lip just a little. “I know some men prefer sons…”

He stopped her before she could say another word, by pressing a finger to her lips and then bending down to replace that finger with a sweet kiss. He told her truly, “I never expected to be a father, _Khaleesi_. And I don’t care if this child is a girl, a boy…or another dragon—” the smile lines around both their eyes crinkled on the notion, before he turned _very_ serious, “—I only care that she’s part of you and part of me. That she’s healthy and that the Seven Kingdoms love her and cherish her. And they will.”

Now it was his turn to show confidence of things unknown.

“How do you know that?” Daenerys liked when he turned serious. She said it gave his honeyed voice a rasping note that no one on two continents could duplicate. And she loved his voice. She told him often enough. 

“Because you’re her mother,” he brought his forehead down the many inches needed to meet hers. In habit, she stretched up to meet him halfway. He continued, “And so she can’t help but be as beautiful and brave and lovely as you.”

“You love her already,” she murmured her reply, on a soft grin that lit up the evening gloom. Both of her arms rose high to wrap around his neck, bringing him even closer, her head sinking against his chest on a contented sigh. 

“Aye, Daenerys,” he answered, gathering her and the babe close, while pressing a kiss against the top of her head. “Nearly as much as I love you…”


End file.
